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IRISH POEMS 



By 
Arthur Stringer 




New Tork 

Mitchell Kennerley 

1911 






Copyright igii by 
Mitchell Kennerley 






Press of J. J. Little bf Ives Co. 

East Twenty-fourth Street 

New Tork 




;a-ci.A:if325i)o 



CONTENTS 




The Pipe Player 


PAGE 

9 


In the Tropics 


II 


^ Cloidna of the Isle 


i6 


Spring in the City 


i8 


The Half-Door 


20 


^ I'll Niver Go Home Again 


22 


Nora 


24 


Caoch O'Lynn 


26 


Stormy Eily 


28 


Childer' 


30 


The Meeting 


32 


The Good Man 


34 


Exile 


35 


Memories 


36 


At the Wharf End 


38 


The Randyvoo 


39 


The Kelt a Dreamer Is 


41 


MacGilligan's Grove 


42 


The Man of Means 


44 


Rivals 


45 



Contents 



PAGE 

The Blatherskite 47 

Whistlin^ Dannie 48 

Soft Ways 49 

OuLD Doctor Ma'Ginn 5 1 

The Philanderer 52 

The People of Dreams 55 

Man to Man 56 

Messages 57 

The Thrushes 59 

O'Hara the Bird-Man 60 

The Comether 61 

The Throuble 62 

The Snowbird 63 

SouPLE Terence 64 

The Sisterhood 65 

The Way Wid Singin' 67 

Mother Ireland 68 

Lost Songs 69 

WiMMEN Folk 70 

The Throublin^ Things 71 

The Ould World's Way 72 

The Seekers 73 

Possession 74 

Noreen of Ballybree 75 

The Pride of Erin 77 

WiMMEN 80 



Contents 





PAGE 


The Sirens 


8i 


The Discovery 


83 


The Dancing Days 


85 


By the Sea Wall 


87 


The Evening Up 


89 


The Wise Man 


91 


The End 


93 


The Old Men 


94 


The Mornin's Mornin' 


96 


The Old Hound 


98 


Says Old Doctor Ma'Ginn 


100 


Thk Fo'castle Sage 


lOI 


The Wearing of the Green 


103 


Moisty Weather 


104 


Wings 


105 


The Wife 


107 


Barney Creegan 


110 



A FOREWORD 

T T will be obvious to even the more casual 
^ reader of this volume that the three-score 
dramatic lyrics between its covers are not the 
utterance of one particular individual. To the 
more critical reader it will be equally obvious 
that the dialect I have made use of is not the 
dialect of one particular Irish county. The 
entire volume, I might venture to say, is de- 
signed more as a small gallery of small por- 
traits, or to be more exact, as a record of 
fleeting impressions caught from the West of 
Ireland character — as often in exile, confess- 
edly, as in the midst of its native hills. 

There is ''sorra" need for me here to dwell 
on either the loveableness or the humorous ir- 
responsibility of this character, on either the 
whimsical gayeties or the nostalgic mournful- 
ness of these people who were, and are, partly 
my own people. But in my attempted recountal 
of these impressions I must confess to a certain 
compromise. I have again and again, in the 
matter of the written word, been coerced into 



Foreword 



something not unlike a sacrifice of actuality on 
the altar of literary convention. This has been 
due, not so much to the consciousness that a 
''foreignized" and laboriously achieved spell- 
ing is as exasperating to the eye as it is ex- 
hausting to the mind, but more to the fact that 
the dialect of one Irish county or countryside is, 
more Hibernico, usually a contradiction of the 
dialect of its neighboring county or countryside. 
And further, what is commonly spoken of as 
the Irishman's ''brogue," it must be confessed, 
is a speech or method of speech much too 
elusive to be captured and tied down to an ink- 
pot. The imitation brogue, the near-brogue, 
the brogue which ''belaves" a ''Quane" might 
"swape" a flock of forty ''shape" inside of a 
"wake's" time, is a creation peculiar to the 
vaudeville-boards and the joke-monger's col- 
umn. It is a speech that is about as common 
in Connaught and her sister counties as snakes 
are in Ireland. Even the broadening of the 
diphthong "ea" into the long "a" is too prone 
to exaggeration. Yet there are tricks of speech 
so characteristic and so persistent they cannot 
be ignored. One, for instance, is the flattening 
of the dental digraph "th" into something ap- 
proaching a "d." To write it down always as a 

6 



Foreword 



<<^'? 



d" Is a somewhat clumsy artifice. It remains, 
however, the only adequate device for the ex- 
pression of that quaintly hardening tendency 
which translates *Vith" into something so 
closely akin to *'wid." Still another practice is 
the lowering, the ''de-dentalating," of the sibil- 
lant, readily recognized in the ^^smile" which 
becomes ^'shmile" and the ''street'' which must 
be recorded as ''shtreet," though here again the 
inserted ''h" is a somewhat awkward instrument 
to denote that tenuous rustle of breath with 
which Erin wafts out its hissing consonant. In 
the same way, the tendency to express the soft- 
ened ''of" by "av" may not always be entirely 
satisfying; yet, when it comes to a matter of 
ink and paper, the resort to it seems the only 
reasonable avenue out of the difficulty. And 
beyond this there are many more difficulties, dif- 
ficulties of idiom, and of mental attitude. And 
as an excuse for a newcomer's invasion of that 
land of brogues and accents and intonations, 
which are as elusive as quicksilver even while 
they are as penetrating as turf-smoke and as 
soft as a bog-land breeze, I can only add that it 
is a field in which there are many anomalies and 
no finalities. 

A. S. 



IRISH POEMS 



THE PIPE PLAYER 



piPER-MAN, Piper-Man, 
-^ Puttin* into Song 

Love and tears that make us turn 
As we pass along! 



Piper-Man, Piper -Man, 

Whereas your sense av shame, 
P^radin' wid unholy noise 

Things we'd niver name? 



Piper-Man, Piper-Man, 
Whin the tears are told. 

What have ye f take the place 
Av the things ye've sold? 

9 



Irish Poems 



But Piper-Mafi, Piper-Man, 

Is it, faith, a loss, 
Passin^ us your broken dreams 

Whin your palm we cross? 
Givin' us your achin^ heart 

For the gold we toss? 



lO 



Arthur Stringer 



IN THE TROPICS 

{O to he in Ireland wid me youth again, 
Half a world from palm-three, half a world 

from this! 
O to be in Ireland, where the coolin^ rain 
Falls across the green hills like a woman's 

kiss!) 

T T P and down the withered turf 
^^ Here I pace the ould Parade, 
Listenin' to the Tropic surf 

Where the Band-stand music brayed. 

Here the gintry go and come, 

Shlow beneath a milk-white moon 

Round as yonder kettle-drum 

Throbbin' out its home-sick toon. 

Round and round they drift and pass. 
Thro' the palms they wheel and roam, 

Where the Regimintal Brass 

Plays its wishtful songs av Home. 

II 



Irish Poems 



Shlow and stately as the dead, 

On they move from light to light, 

Soljer-men in glarin' red, 

Ladies in their ghostly white. 

Long I've watched thim as they pass 
Where the sea-wall shmells av musk 

And the palm-fronds green as brass 
Whisper thro' the Thrade-swept dusk. 

Long I've marked thim come and go 
Where the swayin' lantherns shine, 

Where the white electhrics glow, 

Where the Band-stand cornets whine; 

Where the trombones pulse and blare 
Wid some shlow and stately toon, 

Where the sea-wind shtirs the air 
And the coral beaches croon. 

Long I've watched thim here alone, 
Till the palms and music seem 

Ghosts av things I've scarcely known, 
Ghosts that thrail across a dream; 

And the soft and shleepy Cross, 
Shinin' from its shleepy dome. 

Seems to tell thim av their loss, 
Half a world away from Home. 

12 



Arthur Stringer 



But IVe left no Home behind, 

And there's naught beyont the Sea, 

Naught av kith nor wimmen-kind 
Waitin' for the likes av me. 

Yet I listen, wid the ache 

Av a man who's known his dead. 

While the ould toons shtir and wake 
Things I've put beyont me head. 

And I watch thim wid a blur 

Creepin' thro' the ould Parade, 
Where the cliff-palms wake and shtir 

In the soft and sultry Thrade. 

{O to be in Ireland where the cool rain falls, 
Where the meltiv! green shlopes meet the ten- 
der light, 
Where across the whin the tawney owlet calls, 
Where the settlin^ grouse-crow tells av comin' 
night!) 

Life I've lived, and Youth I've had, 

Yet no home is home to me : 
Faith, I've loved it, good and bad. 

Lane and city, land and sea! 

13 



Irish Poems 



But I sthill must take me way 

To the ends av all the earth, 
Fine me port, and drain me day, 

Askin' what the game is worth. 

So I watch the gintry walk. 

Heart-sick wimmen white as foam, 

Heat-sick faces white as chalk. 
Half a world away from Home. 

And I hark the sad ould croon, 

Av the swingin' Tropic Sea, 
Till the palm and Cross and moon 

Seem but ghosts av things to me. 

And I wander thro' a dream. 

And the men I walk beside 
Nothin' more than spirits seem — 

And I know me youth has died! 

— Died and went this many a year 

With a gerrl they buried deep 
Where the hawthorn's growin' near 

And the coolin' lough-winds creep! 

O to he in Ireland where that blue lough lies! 
O to hear the home-like clap av pigeon^ s wing! 
O to see the bog-lands greet the mornin^ skies! 
O to be in Ireland, waitin' for the Spring! 

X4 



Arthur Stringer 



But ni niver more he seein' my ould Home, 
Niver hear the ould voice callin' thro' the rain, 
Niver see the Headlands flashin' wid their 

foam. 
And niver win me lost youth back to me again! 



15 



Irish Poems 



CLOIDNA OF THE ISLE 

T HAD me bit av hay-land callin' for the 

^ scythe, 

When who should hurry hiUward, wishtful- 

loike and blithe, 
But Cloidna av the Isle, that gerrl av pink an' 

white, 
Wid eyes av Irish blue an' hair as black as 

night! 
I had me hay to mow an' gather into rick. 
But when ye talk wid handsome gerrls, och, 

time goes quick! 

**Aroo," says she to me, wid her slow an meltin' 

shmile, 
^Tm lookin' for a man, this many an' many a 

mile! 
'*Me hay's all ripe," says she; *Vhativer will 

I do 
Widout a bit av help?" . . . Bedad, her 

eye was blue ! 

i6 



Arthur Stringer 



Och, what's the use av moilin' till your life's 

all done ! 
An' what's a rick or two, beside a bit av fun ! 
I swung me singin' scythe thro' Cloidna's fields 

o' hay, 
An' wid it swung me singin' heart each livelong 

day, 
An' on me, iv'ry swath, she shmiled wid tender 

eyes 
Faith, when yotiWe wid a handsome woman, 

how time flies! 



17 



Irish Poems 



SPRING IN THE CITY 

^T^ HERE'S a lad sellin' bird-whistles made 
out av lead; 

There's a Greek boy wid vilet-clumps big as 
your head! 

There's a promise av buds on the patient ould 
trees ; 

There's a whisper av Spring in the shmoke- 
laden breeze ! 

There's a haze on the house-tops, a croon in the 
air; 

There's a hand-organ throbbin' through Madi- 
son Square ; 

And the childer' are dancin' on cobble and flag, 

And the Avenoo's thrilled wid the horn from 
a drag! 

There's a wee sparrow chirpin' as glad as a 

lark, 
And daffodils show in the beds av the Park, 

i8 



Arthur Stringer 



And the gcrrls have such posies and pinks on 
their heads 

Ye'd be dreamin' their hats were all hyacinth- 
beds! 

There's a rumble av wheels and the roar av a 
car, 

And the patther av hoofs, and the odor of tar! 

And the riveters, high on yon sky-scraper sills, 

Are all rappin' and tappin' like wood-pecker 
bills; 

And there's house-windys open and doors slam- 
min' shut, 

And there's clatther and dust, and the Divil 
knows what ! 

But in faith I would give it, the first and the 

last. 
For wan glimpse av the ould Springs over and 

past, 
For the call av the cuckoo, the peewit's ould 

cry. 
And the purple av moorlands against the ould 

sky. 
And the lough, and the heather, and the valleys 

av green. 
And the old shleepy hill-town without a 

traneen ! 

19 



Irish Poems 



THE HALF-DOOR 

^ I ''HAT whin-bred gerrl In heat or cold 

Would iver leave the door swung wide, 
Faith, wide as in her home av old 

Where hares wanst played and peewits cried. 

'Te're in a throublin' city now, 

And och, it seems the city's way 
To steal and pilfer. Gawd knows how," 

They told her twinty times a day. 

*Taith, I could niver ate nor sleep 

Widout a bit av sun," says she; 
'Tor sure at home we used to keep 

The half-door wide as wide could be." 

That whin-bred gerrl, as gerrls have done. 
Full wide and open kept her door. 

And thought to find her bit av sun 

As home-sick gerrls have thried before. 

20 



Arthur Stringer 



And faith, there soon went thraipsin' thro', 

Widout a sash or bar to part, 
A city lad wid eyes av blue. 

Who left a gerrl wid achin' heart. 

Ay, left a girleen av the moors 
Shut in widout her thrace av sun, 

And wandered on to other doors 
As other laughin' lads have done. 

*'At home," she sobbed, *^there's half-doors in 
Each singin' heart and cottage wall — 

But in the town wid all its sin 
Ye can't be free at all, at all!" 



21 



Irish Poems 



I'LL NIVER GO HOME AGAIN 

ril nher go home affain, 
Home to the ould sad hills, 
Home through the ould soft rain, 
Where the curlew calls and thrills! 

« 

T^OR I thought to find the ould wcc house, 
■*" Wid the moss along the wall ! 

And I thought to hear the crackle-grouse, 
And the brae-birds call! 

And I sez, I'll find the glad wee burn, 

And the bracken in the glen, 
And the fairy-thorn beyont the turn, 

And the same ould men ! 

But the ways I'd loved and walked, avick, 

Were no more home to me, 
Wid their sthreets and turns av starin' bride, 

And no ould face to see I 

22 



Arthur Stringer 



And the ould glad ways I'd helt in mind, 
Loike the home av Moira Bawn, 

And the ould green turns I'd dreamt to find, 
They all were lost and gone ! 

And the white shebeen beside the leap 
Where the racin' wathers swirled 

And the burnin' kelp-shmoke used to creep — 
'Tis now another world! 

And all thrampled out long years ago 

By feet IVe niver seen ^ 

Are the fairy- rings that used to show 
Along the low boreen ! 

And the bairns that romped by TuUagh Burn 
Whin they saw me sthopped their play — 

Through a mist av tears I tried to turn 
And ghost-like creep away ! 

And ril niver go home again! 
Home to the ould lost years, 
Home where the soft warm rain 
Drifts loike the drip av tears! 



23 



Irish Poems 



NORA 

XX7HY IS It, now, me Nora 
^^ Will niver shpeak av Hugh? 
Will niver pass a joke wid him 
The way she used to do ? 

Toime was that gerrl'd blather 
Av Hughie, noon and night! 

Now iv'ry time he swings the gate 
Her face goes starin' white I 

I've spied no row nor ruction; 

They meet as friend wid friend; 
And still, I'm toldt, he walks with her 

Beyondt the boreen's end. 

I've done me best by Nora ; 

That gerrPs as thrue as day, 
Wid all her big and wishtful eyes, 

Wid all her bashful way! 

24 



Arthur Stringer 



But white before me turf-fire 

She sits widout a word, 
This gerrl av mine who used to sing 

As mad as any bird! 

Faith, since she lost her muther, 

I've left that colleen free 
To come and go — but times there are 

When men are slow to see ! 

For wanst I spied her rockin* 

And sobbin, here, alone — 
Now, can there he some throuble up 

Her muther might *ve known? 



25i 



Irish Poems 



CAOCH O'LYNN 

/^CH, here I am wid arms and legs, 

^^ Wid all me thravellin's far from home I 

Wid all me curlin' seas to cross 

And all me clamorin' world to roam I 

Wid all me jiggin', port to port, 

Carousin', rovin', round the earth — 

But wanst the thing's been said and done, 
What's all me mad adventurin' worth? 

For here lies little Caoch O'Lynn, 

Who's niver fared from bed nor house; 

Wid crooked leg and twisted spine, 
As chirpy as a grackle-grouse ! 

He tells me av the thrips he takes ; 

The landin'-parties wanst he led, 
The foreign ports so spiced and fine, 

Betwixt the spindles av his bed I 

26 



Arthur Stringer 



He tells me av the secret thrail 

That leads to some ould Castle stair 

Where shleeps a Princess sad and pale 
Wid half a mile av golden hair! 

He tells me av Tangier and Fez, 

Av Cartagena, Suakim, 
And all the flashin, lashin' seas 

That iver wait and wave for him ! 

From Chiny round to Spanish Main 
He sings and thravels — in his mind — 

A King of Dreams who^s clean forgot 
The crooked hack he's left behind! 



27 



Irish Poems 



STORMY EILY 

(Said Kildree Tim: *^ There's niver words 

Betwixt me wife an* me! 
AroOy we live hike matin* birds, 

Widout a peckr says he; 
^^Aye, niver a row or ruction, lad, 
Me mild-shpoke mate an* Fve wanst had!**) 

C INCE first I've loved me Eily 
^ We've wrangled, walked away, 
An' fought an' kissed an' fallen out 
An' stormed be night an' day! 

Faith, since I've first loved Eily, 

On throubled seas I've swung! 
That woman's two-thirds made av fire, 

An' wan-third made av tongue 1 

But then she ends in weepin'. 

An' sobbin' I'm to blame — 
('Tis th' fire that makes wan quick to fight 

Drives wan to love the same!) 

28 



Arthur Stringer 



For next she's wrapped me^ shmilin' 
Like the Lord^s own sky above, 

In the softest, warmest, maddest arms 
That iver ached wid love! 



29 



Irish Poems 



CHILDER* 



THEY'RE longin' for a wee lad 
Up in Tullagh Hail- 
Where niver wanst a cradle was, 
An' niver child at all! 



They're shpeakin' all in whispers, 
They're threadin' on their toes, 

An' tin-and-twinty sewin'-gerrls 
Is thrimmin' satin clothes ! 

A deal av fuss an' feathers 

Gintry makes, aroo, 
Wid all their frightened wimmen-folk 

When wan to wan is two ! 

They've twinty-hundred acres 

Hid be jealous wall — 
Yet niver throd a little foot 

Thro' lonely Tullagh Hall ! 

30 



Arthur Stringer 



But here beneath the ould thatch 

Childer' come so fast, 
In faith, we put the first f bed 

For room to rock the last! 



31 



Irish Poems 



THE MEETING 

T'D niver seen the face av her; 
^ And she knew naught av me. 
She'd fared that day from Shela Hills, 
And I'd swung in from sea. 

It may have been the warm, soft night, 
The soft and moitherin' moon! 

It may have been the lonely streets 
And the ould sea's lonely chune ! 

It may have all been doomed, in faith. 

For many an' many a year. 
That soft and mad and wishtful night 

Without a laugh or tear! 

She belt me face betwixt her hands 

And out av wishtful eyes 
For long she watched me sunburnt face 

Wid wonder and surprise. 

32 



Arthur Stringer 



For long against her quiet breast 
She helt me throubled head; 

And when I kisst her shmilin' mouth, 
*Te'll ne'er come back!" she said. 

And out she fared to Shela Hills, 
And I swung back to sea : 

But och, the ache and loneliness 
That wan night left wid me ! 



33' 



Irish Poems 



THE GOOD MAN 



TVTACKILLRAY was a dour man, 
ItX Workin' night and day, 
Thryin' to build a grand house, 
And frettin' life away. 

When he'd built his fine house, 

High beyont the furze, 
Not a gerrl in Kindree 

Sought to make it hers ! 

II 

Larry was a young de'il, 

Idlin' youth away, 
A-pipin' and philanderin' 

And laughin' all the day. 

Niver was a colleen 

Trod the Kindree sod 
But homeless would have fared forth 

At homeless Larry's nod! 

34 



Arthur Stringer 



EXILE 

TN the dead av the night, acushla, 
^ When the new big house is still, 
I think av the childer' thick as hares 
In the ould house under the hill ! 

And I think av the times, alanna. 
That we harkened the peewit's cry, 

And how we ran to the broken gate 
When the piper av Doon went by ! 

In the dead of the year, acushla, 

When me wide new fields are brown, 

I think av that wee ould house. 

At the edge av the ould gray town ! 

I think av the rush-lit faces. 

Where the room and loaf was small: 
Yet the new years seem the lean years, 

And the ould years, best av all! 

35 



Irish Poems 



MEMORIES 

/^ F my ould loves, of their ould ways, 
^^ I sit an' think, these bitther days. 

(IVe kissed — 'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhyme- 
More mouths than one in my mad time !) 

Of their soft ways and words I dream, 
But far off now, in faith, they seem. 

Wid betther lives, wid betther men. 
They've all long taken up again ! 

For me an' mine they're past an' done — 
Aye, all but one — yes, all but one ! 

Since I kissed her 'neath TuUagh Hill 
That one gerrl stays close wid me still. 

Och ! up to mine her face still lifts. 

And round us still the white May drifts; 

36 



Arthur Stringer 



And her soft arm, in some ould way, 
Is here beside me, night an' day; 

But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep, 
Wid all that love she couldn't keep. 

Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere, 
This many a year — this many a year! 



37 



Irish Poems 



AT THE WHARF END 

"VTE'LL weep it out, and sleep it out, 
-■• Faith, forget me in a day ! 
Ye'U talk it out, and walk it out — 
Yis, rU be long away! 

But what a heavin' shoulder this 

To rock a lad to sleep ! 
Och, me gerrl, that one kiss. 

Ye knew it couldn't keep ! 

Some cry it out, and sigh it out, 

But we'll forgit the ache ! 
Ye'U laugh it off, and chaff it off, 

And learn to give and take ! 

And that's the gray ship waitin' me — » 
Sure, what's the good o' tears ! 

It's got to be, and ought to be — 
One kiss — for twinty years I 

38 



Arthur Stringer 



THE RANDYVOO 



TXrE see thim thrailin' in and out wid nlver 
^^ wanst a shmile 

At Fairy-Thorn or buddin' May that's scentin' 

many a mile; 
I see thim streelin' in and out wid salt tears 

on their face, 
For yon's the Acre av the Dead and thought a 

dourish place, 
Wid gravestones thick as barley tops and yews 

forninst the wall. 
Where leverocks soar and sing so mad, and 

matin' cuckoos call. 



II 

And dark it is, in faith, to thim who hold the 

place in dread. 
And dour enough it still may be for thim who 

know their dead; 

39 



Irish Poems 



But, och, for me 'tis still the home av iv'ry 

singin' lark 
And iv'ry note and hawthorn scent that steals 

across the dark; 
For wanst, where black between the stones the 

yew tree shadows hung, 
I found and knew me first lovers kiss, when all 

the world was young. 



40 



Arthur Stringer 



THE KELT A DREAMER IS 

TXT" ID a jorum wanst under me arm, faith, 

^^ the thought av it 

Could warm me almost as though I had drunk 
down the lot av it ! 
Me mind could half burn wid the fire av it; 
Widout all the sting and the tire av it 
I'd swim wid the dream and desire av itl 

When down be ould Donnievale Wall I sat 

waitin' and dreamin' 
'Twasn't her when she came; 'twas the watchin^ 
and longin' and seemin' ! 
'Tis love, says I, but you tire av it; 
'Tis only in dream the desire av it 
Outstays both the ache and the fire av it ! 

But now that I've wasted and lived through the 

last av it, 
Aye, now that it's lost, how I dream av the 
past av it ! 
For broodin' av Death, and the dire av it, 
I'd now face Hell and the fire av it, 
For me ould mad youth and the mire av it ! 

41 



Irish Poems 



MAC GILLIGAN'S GROVE 



/^CH, me hearin' is failin' an' me eyesight 
^^ is bad; 

And I haven't a leg for the stratspeys I had, 
Nor the tirrl av a bow that I loved as a lad ! 



Och, me ould head now, sure, 'tis bald to the 

crown, 
An' I walk wid a limp, an' I look wid a frown, 
An' me ould bones ache wid the years they have 

known I 

But wheniver I thrail be that bit av a wood 
Where the throstles are singin' as wanst, too, I 

could. 
An' other lads stand where wanst, too, I stood ; 

Wheniver I sniff me the buds on its trees, 
Wheniver the May-day's alive wid its bees. 
The song of its lark, an' the smell av its 
breeze; 

42 



Arthur Stringer 



I shtill see a gerrl an' a shlip av a boy, 
(Such sayin's an' doin's, cometherin', coy; 
Such moitherin' meetin' an' achin' wid joy) — 

They're shpeakin' the same word some other 

lad said; 
They're draggin' me back thro' the years that 

are dead, 
An' throublin' an' mixin' me empty ould head ! 

An' that shtreel av a blatherskite niver is me, 
Says I to meself • . . then a gleek av the 

bee 
An' a trill av the lark an' a shmell av the tree 
Says that ghost av a shtreel is the ghost av me! 



43 



Irish Poems 



THE MAN OF MEANS 

T ' VE got me a tilloch av land ; 
-*• I drink me potheen as I may; 
I'm ten-and-six-stone as I stand, 
And I thravel to Gleen in a shay ! 

I've gathered me pittance and more; 

I've feathered me bit av a nest; 
And they call me the fr'ind av the poor, 

Me, needin' as much as the rest ! 

For I'd barther me last stone av meal, 
If wanst through the Ballybree rain 

She'd waken and whisper and steal, 
That ghost av dead Moira McShane! 

Aye, the lee and the long av it stands. 

That I'd give thim me meadow and bawn. 

And me fool av a shay, and me lands. 
For that wisp av a gerrl that's gone ! 

44 



Arthur Stringer 



RIVALS 

"1 XT' ID her shmile that is wishtful and sad, 
^ ^ Wid her hand folded close like a wing, 
Wid her blue eyes so throubled and wide, 
She waits for the letther I bring. 

Wid a laugh and a toss av the head 
She blows me a kiss from the wall; 

But the letther she holds to her breast, 
And she's weepin' at nothin' at all ! 

And she'll sob and she'll brood on a scrawl 
From this habbage gone many a year — 

While she stabs me wid kisses and shmiles, 
But crowns me not wanst wid a tear ! 



4? 



Irish Poems 



THE TIME FOR LOVE 

WHEN the moon was the size av a cart- 
wheel, 
And as sootherin' soft as cream; 
When the lough lay strange wid the night-mist, 
And the down was a sea av dream — 

When the voice av a gerrl was music, 
And your own, like a linnet's wing, 

Was fluttherin' full av the moonlight 
And the mad glad fire av Spring — 

Och, yon was the time for lovin', 
Those moitherin^ bantherin' years 

When I was a Billy-Go-Fister blade 
And the world was young, me dears ! 



46 



Arthur Stringer 



THE BLATHERSKITE 

/^CH, never give your whole heart up — take 

^■^ it from one that knows ! 

The first may seem a gooldie, but the second's 

like a rose, 
And kissin' still is kissin', lad, from Antrim 

down to Clare, 
And the world is full av women — so the divil 

take the care ! 

Aye, kiss away their tears, me lad, and hold 

them at a song ; 
The heart that's lovin' lightest is the heart 

that's lovin' long! 
So leave the gerrl beyont the hill, and greet the 

one above — 
Och, don't be lovin' women, lad, but just thry 

lovin' Love! 



47 



Irish Poems 



WHISTLIN* DANNIE 

T?AITH, such a whistler was Dannie, 
^ A-chirrupin' all the day! 
'Twas more like a thrush on the holm-side 
A-singin' its life away! 

His thatch stood a sieve for the wather, 
And his belly went empty av bread; 

But he made his potheen out av Music, 
And whistled his throubles to bed! 

And divil a man did he care for. 

And divil a wife would be take. 
And divil a rag had he wanst to his name — 

But och, what a chune he could make! 



48 



Arthur Stringer 



SOFT WAYS 

I 

A LANNA, what a soft land the Ould Sod 
^ ^ used to be; 
The soft lush green o' hillsides, the soft en- 

circlin' sea; 
The still and purple moorlands, where the plov- 
ers call; 
The soft and misty bog-land, the lough and 

purrin' fall; 
The heather on the brake-side, the sleepy fields 

o' hay; 
The Fairy-Thorn and Whin-Bush, the gold 

Gorse and the May; 
The low wall and the roof thatch, so mild wid 

moss and mold; 
The soft cries av the childer', the soft eyes av 

the ould ; 
And best and last, the Springtime, all muffled 

wid the rain: 
But never wanst those soft ways for me and 



mine again! 



49 



Irish Poems 



II 

This new land has no soft ways; 'tis mortial 

hard and stern; 
'Tis work and fret your way out, 'tis moilin' 

iv'ry turn ! 
Alanna, all the soft things the throubled city 

sees 
Is laughin' gerrls wid soft mouths still swarm- 
in' thick as bees ! 
And me that's used to ould ways, with nothin' 

else to find, 
I seek me out a soft mouth, and leave the rest 

behind; 
I seek the only soft thing their frettin' streets 

can hold — 
For women in the New World are kind as in 

the Ould! 



50 



Arthur Stringer 



OULD DOCTOR MA'GINN 

^ I ^HE ould doctor had only wan failin\ 

^ It stayed wid him, faith, till he died; 
And that was the habit av wearin' 
His darby a thrifle wan side ! 

And twenty times daily 'twas straightened, 

But try as he would for a year, 
Not thinkin', he'd give it a teether 

A thrifle down over wan ear! 

It sat him lop-sided and aisy; 

It throubled his kith and his kin — 
But och, 'twas the only thing crooked 

About our ould Doctor Ma'Ginn ! 

And now that he's gone to his Glory — 

Excuse me, a bit av a tear — 
Here^s twenty to wan that his halo 

Is slantin' down over his ear! 

51 



Irish Poems 



THE PHILANDERER 

I 

/^CH, take a shmile and give wan, and meet 

^^ a mouth and kiss wan, 

And whin ye're off to furrin parts ye'll niver 

mourn or miss wan ! 
But the Divil take those gray eyes I left beyont 

the sea ! 
Sthill, if kissin' wanst was killin' 
We'd be dyin' less unwillin* — 
But I wonder if that wistful gerrl is waitin* 

there for me ! 

n 

Aye, take your kiss and keep it and draw your 

latch and leave it, 
But niver say the last word or all your life ye'U 

grieve it — 
The gerrl beyont the wather is the gerrl beyont 



your care ! 



52 



Arthur Stringer 



Sure, some other mouth she'll find her, 
Wid as sootherin' ways to blind her — 
Yet I'm thinkin' av those ould eyes, those gray 

eyes watchin' there ! 
And I'm dreamin' av a waitin' gerrl with sea- 
mist on her hair! 



Ill 



If ye are cold wid wimmen, 'tis thrue in law 

and letther, 
They'll lave ye wid their moitherin', and learn 

to love ye bettherl 
So niver go the whole lingth . . . but keep 

your fancy free ! 
Och, if she'd only been afraid; 
If only she'd not clung and sthayed, 
That gerrl and all her gray eyes would not be 

pesterin'me! 



IV 



Few wimmen love a month long, and most, in 

faith, a minute ! 
But when she gave her mouth up her pleadin' 

soul was in it ! 

53 



Irish Poems 



A heap av tears and throuble, sure, this kissin' 
brings to some ! 
But niver such a shlip again . , 
And niver such a lip again, 
Wid all these calm-eyed wimmen that's kiss 

and go and come, 
Wid all these laughin' furrin mouths Fm takin' 
nothin' from! 



'54 



Arthur Stringer 



THE PEOPLE OF DREAMS 

T DREAM av the good days gone, 
•*" Av the luck I still might find ; 
But the lurin'-most times these eyes look on 
Are the years left far behind! 

Aroo, how a Kelt heart clings 

To the Dreamin' and not the truth ! 

How it harps on the ould good ways and sings 
In the teeth av its wasted youth ! 

We thravel too early or late 

For the shpot where the sunlight glowed; 
And it's niver the place we watch and wait 

That the rainbow meets the road ! 



55 



Irish Poems 



MAN TO MAN 

'^^E'LL find two kinds av wimmen, lad, 
-*■ When ye have aged a bit; 
And faix, they're all not good nor bad — 
And that's the worst av it! 

Ye'll find some wimmen longin' so 

For love, lad, if ye would! 
Ye know it well, and whilst ye know 

Ye can't, and niver could! 

And some ye'll kiss who sthill stay cold; 

Aye, thim who might and won't — 
And thim ye'd walk through Hell to hold, 

And love, because they don't ! 



56 



Arthur Stringer 



MESSAGES 

T N faith, I knew av wireless talk 
^ This twinty years and more : 
Widout a sign, widout a word. 
As I passed Sheela's door, 

That gerrl could send a message clear 

Past iv'ry gapin' head! 
Ay, past their ring av watchin' eyes 

I'd know what Sheela said ! 

I'd read each message sent from her 

At sixty rod away: 
*'Och, meet me out be Tullagh Hill !" 

As plain as words could say! 

**In faith I will!" I'd answer back, 
Wid but wan look or two ; 

"And all me heart is achin' sore 
Wid all me love for youl" 

57 



Irish Poems 



Or passin' in a side-car, 
Wid all her haughty folk, 

Her soul would up and say to me 
As plain as tho' she spoke: 

*'They pesther me wid watchin', 
They cross me ivry turn, 
But soul and body I'll be yours 
This night be TuUagh Burn!" 



58 



Arthur Stringer 



THE THRUSHES 



/^ CH, wee thrush a-thirstin' to sing out 
^^ Such music an' sootherin' song, 
Such heart-breakin' longin' to wring out, 

Such swearin' the world's all wrong — 
Faith, all the lone heart that ye fling out 

Should be lovin' a whole life long ! 

II 

Oh, wood-thrush, I listen an' listen. 
For a song from yon wee nest above. 

Since matin' your music I'm missin'. 

For there's nothin' left out to sing of — 

^Tis the lip that ye' II never see kissin' 
Is singin' foriver of love! 



59 



Irish Poems 



O'HARA THE BIRD-MAN 

npOMORROW they're hangin' O'Hara av 

•^ Glenn, 

For a Fenian or two as was kilt in a fight. 
O'Hara the Bird-Man's to hang from a tree 
For a bit av a killin' he did over-night ! 

There's sorra hope left if they're stringin' up 
lads 
Wid a sowl like O'Hara's, that's saying the 
least— 
Och, what a mistake to be hangin' a man 
So fond av each little wee birdie and beast! 



60 



Arthur Stringer 



THE COMETHER 

"VTE'VE not a traneen, nor a foot like a 
*■" queen," 

Said Creina to Oonagh McCaulter; 
**And Fm thinkin* it queer that twice in wan 
year 
Ye're leadin' a man to the altar!" 

She heard Oonagh say in her shleepy soft way: 

** 'Tis niver a kiss, nor a sigh! 
Nor even a shmile nor a face, be a mile, 

But the Come-Hither Look in the eyeV^ 



6i 



Irish Poems 



THE THROUBLE 

/^ CH, why should I think av that shlip av a 
^^ gerrl, 

Av that soft little whisp av a thing? 
Och, why should she throuble a ranger like me, 

Who's thraveled and taken me fling? 

Aroo, and a pea is a mite av a thing, 

Tho' shut in your shoe and 'twill shmart! 

But a mite av a gerrl will throuble ye more 
When she's tight on the tip av your heart! 



62 



Arthur Stringer 



THE SNOWBIRD 

Q TILL wid his wee ould bosom warm, 
^ Och, mad as hare or hatter, 
He pipes and jigs through iv'ry storm — 
So what can Winter matter? 

Faith, laugh and leave your tears behind. 
And sing thro' toil and throuble, — 

There's still a kind of bein' blind, 
That's more than seein' double! 



63 



Irish Poems 



SOUPLE TERENCE 



T 'M wishful to live as the story-books say, 
-^ Vm achin' to love as they loved av old; 
I want to be drunken and swimmin' in bliss, 
And weepin' and sighin' and ravin' away 
Loike the old tales said and the old songs 
told— 
But, faith, and how do ye love like this? 

II 

I've loved In me day, and Fm hopin' to more; 
Fve taken me chance, and Fve stolen me kiss; 
But, faith, and Fve niver gone mad over it! 
The further Fve thraveled away from the 

shore 
The tighter Fve held on to that and to this, 
And, och! but Fve had me eye open a bit ! 



64 



Arthur Stringer 



THE SISTERHOOD 

T 'VE knocked about the Sivin Seas, 

^ I've thraveled long and thraveled light, 

From Cardiff down to Carib keys, 

From Shanghai round to Benin Bight. 

From Rotterdam to 'Frisco Bay, 

From Bristol clear to Singapore, 
I've swung and sung and had me way 

Wid wimmen that I'll see no more. 

In fjord, atoll and harbor town. 

Far North, and far beyont the Line, 

I've had thim, black and white and brown — 
And shpeakin' iv'ry tongue but mine ! 

Aye, kissin' back wid furrin words 

I'd niver know the meanin' of. 
And cooin' soft loike shleepy birds 

Wid lips so tired and full av love ! 

65 



Irish Poems 



But, white or black or brown, I knew 
Not wanst their hathen tongue or name 

Yet in the end Fve found it's thrue 
Most ivWy woman weeps the same! 



66 



Arthur Stringer 



THE WAY WID SINGIN^ 

T7AITH, niver the sail calls the frith-wind, 

^ Nor the turf comethers the rain; 

And niver the Fairy-Thorn frets for the spring, 

Or the brae for the summer again ! 
And niver a boreen can ask for a bird. 

Or beg for a whin-chat's strain ! 

Not took from me head are these planxties; 

These chunes they are nothin' av men ! 
They come as the whin-chat comes in spring 

And the grackle-thrush back to the glen ! 
They come loike the rain to the turf, me lad, 

And the Saints know how and when ! 



67 



Irish Poems 



MOTHER IRELAND 

A TRUE and dark-eyed Mother Land, yeVe 
•^ ^ mourned thim day be day, 
The chllder' av your achin' breast who've fared 

a world away! 
Be moorland and be lough and whin, yeVe 

mourned for all your lost, 
But still yeVe smiled and still yeVe watched 

and counted not the cost! 

And dark, in faith, the ould hours fell and cold 
the ashes grew. 

But Ireland, Mother Ireland, still yeVe waited 
fond and thrue ; 

And now the Night has vanished, wid the sor- 
rows it has known, 

We'll hear the call av Ireland, lads, av Ireland 
to her own 1 



68 



Arthur Stringer 



LOST SONGS 

A ROO, but there's singin' Fve struck up 
Wid niver a note to be heard, 
When me heart widout sthirrin' the silence 
Shtood by me and sang like a bird ! 

So if all the ould dreams that escaped me 
Were sung to the chunes that got free, 

I'd be weavin' ye rainbows av rapture 
And shamin' the thrush, ma-chree! 

But och, 'tis the birds that are ailin\ 
Bide close by our coaxin' and sing; 

*Tis the music worth housin' and keepin^ 
Foriver makes of on the wing! 



69 



Irish Poems 



WIMMEN FOLK 

^ I ^IME was I thought av wimmen, sure, 
-^ As made to reverince, limb be limb; 
As something holy-like and pure 

Thro' all the snow white length av thim! 

I dreamed av gerrls as angels, lad, 

Wid all their wistful holy ways. 
To leave you thremblin' when ye'd had 

A word wid thim ... in oulder days ! 

But now I've learned me topsail lore 
And roved the sea from rim to rim, 

I seldom wait and quake before 

The soft and snow white length av thim! 

For when gerrls love you well, me lad, 
They're thrue to nayther law nor letther; 

'Tis when they're most disheartenin' bad 
Ye' II learn to love such angels betther! 

70 



Arthur Stringer 



THE THROUBLIN' THINGS 

T7AITH, linnets are a throuble, lad; 
^ They must be screened an' fed, 
An' sunned beyont your cabin door, 
An' carried back to bed ! 

Faith, love it is a burthen, gerrl; 

'Tis iver give an' take ; 
Aye, knowin' how ye give too much 

An' niver count the ache ! 

Och, childer,' ma'am, are worrisome, 

An' fret an' throuble fall 
On wimmen whin their childer' come; 

They have no peace at all ! 

But song an^ love an' childer\ faith, 
These things you're gettin' free, 
These things you've held to pest ye so, 
Are th' things ye'll find can rest ye so, 
Are th' things ye'll mind have blest ye so, 
Whin you're as ould as me! 

71 



Irish Poems 



THE OULD WORLD'S WAY 

CURE, many's the sailorin' lad 
^ Went singin' and rockin' free 
Out over the Ocean's rim 

As happy as us, machree! 
But many's the time, me lad — 

Such ends the ould world brings — - 
That over the laugh and last av him 

'Tis the sea that rocks and swings! 

And many's the boy wid a plough 

Who'd sing at the break av day 
As he turned the mold wid his share 

And buried the grass away! 
But many's the same lad, now 

That sootherin' greensward won, 
And over his gray hones there 

'Tis the grass that sings in the sun! 



72 



Arthur Stringer 



THE SEEKERS 

Says She: 

^^nr^IS a long way yeVe thraveled, me thrue 

^ love, 
'Tis a long thrip yeVe made on the sea, 
For the sake av a shlip av a gerrl loike me, 

For a bit av a kiss 

No betther than this — 
*Tis a long road yeVe thraveled, Machreel 

Says He: 
*Twas a long way and lone way, Mavourneen, 
But it^s millions av miles, as He knows, 
That a hungerin', wanderin' sunbeam goes 

To be gettin' a kiss 

No warmer than this 
From the lips av no sweeter a rose ! 



73 



Irish Poems 



POSSESSION 



T CAGED me wanst a lark and let him go 1 

''^ I caught me wanst a squirr'l and set him 

free! 
I left a Galway colleen sobbin' low, 

And off I wint to sea, 

Aye, off I wint to sea ! 

II 

IVe had me turn at things, and now I'm old; 
But those I've lost shtand most bewilderin' 
near! 
And those I loved and niver dreamed to hold 
I've kept this many a year, 
In faith, this many a year I 



74 



Arthur Stringer 



NOREEN OF BALLYBREE 

T SAILED in me fine new hooker 

To Ballybree, over the bay, 
Where Noreen O'Regen, me ould love, 
Is livin' this many a day. 

('Twas Noreen took up wid a poacher, 
A Ballybree blade called Neal, 

Wid niver a ham nor a hare-skin 

But what the poor habbage could steal!) 

And Noreen I found, faith, wid childer' 
As thick as the hairs on a goat, 

All squealin' and crowdin' like rabbits 
While I showed her me jule av a boat! 

**But have ye no wife nor childer' ?" 
Says she, wid a perk av the head, 

(And her bosom as flat as a deck-board. 
And her brats all squealin' for bread!) 

75 



Irish Poems 



'*Och, sallin\" says she, *'may be sailin', 
But when it's all shpoken and done, 

^Tis us wid our fine homes and childer^ 
Are livin' and havin' our funP^ 



^6 



Arthur Stringer 



THE PRIDE OF ERIN 

CO she says, lad, she'd only take up wid a 

^ man 

Who was wan av the best, faith, the crame av 

the clan. 
And the pride av the counthry and salt av the 

earth? 
So she's leavin' you, lad, not knowin' your 

worth, 
And she holds she can't mate wid a Kerry like 

you. 
Since she's plannin' to take on wid blood that 

is blue ! 
And the Divil go wid her, but couldn't she see 
You'd the blood av O'Gorman, Fitzpatrick, 

Magee? 
And the stock that is first in both fightin' and 

work, 
From the line av O'Brien and Kelly and Burke? 

—From O'Failey, O'Dailey, O'Reily, O'Neil 
To O'Connell, O'Cooney, O'Shea and 
O'Sheil! 

77 



Irish Poems 



McCaffray, McCurchy, McCarroU, Mc- 

Cann, 
All rulers and fighters since fightin' began ! 
OTeary, OTarrell, O'Carroll, O'Kane, 
McCormack, McGurly, McManus, Mc- 

Shane, 
And Gorman, Fitzpatrick and Fightin' 

McGirr, 
And iv'ry last man av thim betther than 

her! 



So she says you're no betther than Irish, me 

lad, 
But a counthry-bred, swine-drivin' fenian, be- 

dad! 
The whiffet! the upshtart! the meal-fed boo- 

thoon ! 
And could she be tellin', though fed on a spoon. 
The crame av the world from ould Brian 

Boru? 
Faith, how could she hope for a Kerry like 

you? — 
With the pride av your sivin ould kings in your 

veins, 
Wid your mother O'Toole, and your sire av 

McShanes? 

78 



Arthur Stringer 



Wid your ancistry iv'ry wan wearin' his crown, 
From Rhu and O'Brien to Big HoUeran down! 

— FromO'Failey, O'Dailey, O'Reily, O'Neil 
To O'Connell, O'Cooney, O'Shea and 

O'Sheil! 
McCaffray, McCurchy, McCarrolI, Mc- 

Cun, 
McCIone and McCoy — and kings iv'ry 

one! 
O'Leary, O'Farrell, O'CarrolI, O'Kane, 
McCormack, McGurly, McManus, Mc- 

Shane, 
And Tagon O'Regen and Mighty Mc- 

Glone, 
The finest av fighters and kings to the 

bone ! 



79 



Irish Poems 



WIMMEN 

^T^HERE are wimmen's faces, lad, 
•*• That are wind and fire, 
Shtirrin' up the whole world, 
Wakin' ould desire! 

And there's other wimmen, faith, 
Calm and shtill through all, 

Shtickin' to their wan love 
Till the hivens fall ! 

Wan's as foine as hell fire; 

Wan's as thrue as life ! 
Wan ye^ll leave and weep for, 

And wan ye^ll take as wife! 



80 



Arthur Stringer 



THE SIRENS 

/^ FTEN in the night-time I can hear thim 

^^ callin' me, 

Callin', callin' shweeter than a woman to her 

love, 
In acrosst the city wid its sthreets av brick and 

stone, 
Wid its roarin' wheels below and thrailin' 

shmoke above; 
Through the crowded places I can shmell the 

open Sea 
And I hear her sirens callin', callin' for their 

own! 

I can wake and hear thim boomin' thro' the 

harbor rain. 
Hear thim thro' the river-fog where yellow 

lantherns burn ; 
At the break av mornin' I can hear thim growl 

and cough, 
Till I see the bone-white deck and shmokin' 

funnel plain, 

8i 



Irish Poems 



Till I see the shlappin', lappin' harbor-wather 

churn 
Round the rusty side-plates and the lighters 

crowdin' offl 

Faith, I know then I must go and take the End- 
less Thrail, 
For the shtreets become a throuble and all life 

becomes a fret 
And the city seems a prison built av sthone and 

stheel — 
But there's manhood in the facin', racin' av a 

gale 
Wid the dippin', drippin' hawse-holes and the 

decks a-reel ! 
For the Sea is like a woman that you'll ne'er 

forget, 
And she's callin' thro' the night-time, callin' 

thro' the dawn — 
And Fm goin' to know her last kiss before me 

life is gone! 



82 



Arthur Stringer 



THE DISCOVERY 

nr^HE Ice and the long av it now that ye' re 

-*• through 

Seems under the sun ye can find nothin' new — 
So faith, ril be whisperin' what ye might do. 

Go study some colleen's cometherin' eye, 

And whin ye have banthered and blarnied her 

thry 
A flattherin' sadness, a bit av a sigh. 

And whin ye have found that she's taken wid 

you, 
Faith, whether ye laugh or whether ye rue, 
Ye'U go the same way your betthers all do ! 

Ye'll come to your sinses, me solemn gossoon, 
And drunk wid the wine av some warm night 

in June, 
Ye'll be kissin' her mouth and watchin' the 

moon! 

83 



Irish Poems 



And under the sun, faith, nothin* is new — 
But under that moon ye'll find that ifs thrue 
There's stranger ould wonders thin iver ye 
knew/ 



84 



Arthur Stringer^ 



THE DANCING DAYS 



> 'Tp IS a year and a day back to Kindree 
^ Where the gerrls had no shoes to 
their feet ! 
'Tis many a mile to the ould town 

Where the childer' wanst danced in the 
street ! 



Here's bread to be had for the breakin' ; 

Here's moilin' and f rettin' and froth ! 
But thinkin' av Home, how me heart's blood 

Must jig like a wave o' Lake Roth! 

Av Home, och, where down thro' the ould 
street 
Wid his pipin' went Ragged MacGee — 
And faith, how the colleens thrailed round at 
his heels 
And all jigged like the leaves av a tree! 

85 



Irish Poems 



The walls were a tumble av stone-heaps, 
The skim-milk wid wather was thinned, 

And the thatch it was broken and moss- 
grown — 
But we danced like the grass in the wind 1 

Not worth a traneen was the village, 
But no wan was sthoppin* to f ret— 

And ni wager theyWe goin* like a tree^top 
today J 
Faith, dancin^ and starvin^ there yetl 



86 



Arthur Stringer 



BY THE SEA-WALL 

\7[7E should niver have walked to the ould 
sea-wall 
And hearkened the ould grey Sea ; 
We should niver have watched the Southern 
Cross, 
That newrf ound love and me ! 

I should niver have left that bamboo room 
Wid its scent and its winkin' lamp 

And walked thro' the sthill av the Tropic night 
Where the Thrades blew warm and damp ! 

I should niver have watched the ould tides swim 
Wid their shimmerin' glimmerin' glow 

That led me back to my lost Thrue Love 
And the hills av long ago ! 

I should niver have turned to think or dream 

Av that Thrue Love lost to me, 
And the ways I went for my Thrue Love's sake 

Who niver my love would be ! 

87 



Irish Poems 



And that brown-armed shlip av an Island gerrl 

Should niver have let me go 
Where the winds av the East came lashin' up 

And the ould Sea whispered low ! 

For the wind and the palm and the throubled 
surf 

They tould me as plain as day : 
'*Ye're kissin' a ghost in a world av ghosts 

And your Thrue Love's worlds away!" 

For whiniver I watched the ould sad stars 
I could see but me Thrue Love's eyes — 

And the love that has swept and kept a man 
Is niver the love he buys ! 

So the warmth went out av me wonderin' heart 

And we kissed no more at all, 
That gerrl wid the painted mouth and me 

As we sat on the ould sea-wall I 



88 



Arthur Stringer 



THE EVENING UP 

\T 7HIN Shamus O'Regen was sellin' me hay, 
^ ^ And as sheuch-rank as iver was mowed, 
He'd seat his gerrl Moira, for such was his 
way. 
On the top av his thimble-rig load. 

And he'd bring me his scrapin's av thistle and 
whin. 

And I'd take thim wid niver a word; 
But I'd hold for a breath, as the cart jolted in, 

Moira's hand, that was soft as a bird. 

For Moira was wishtful and white as the May, 
And her eyes they would throuble your heart 

Till any ould bramble seemed special fine hay 
Wid her face at the top av the cart. 

Yet me horse and me cattle wint lean as a kite, 
Wid their feedin' on Shamus's hay. 

And I'd figure me loss to a rick over-night — 
But, in faith, I had nothin' to say. 

89 



Irish Poems 



For, Moira and me, we secretly met 
At the end av ould Ballybree Wall, 

And she gave me the word that soon made me 
forget 
Fd ivcr been cheated at all! 



90 



Arthur Stringer 



THE WISE MAN 

T\/rlCHAEL has a book-shelf 
^^^ Stacked amazin' high! 
Michael reads in sivin tongues 
Wid a rheumy eye ! 

Faith, he's called a wise man, 
Readin' half the night; 

Delvin' into stoodjous things 
Betther kept from sight! 

Michael spends a Spring day 
Squintin' o'er a script — 

Michael niver kisst a gerrl 
Warm and rosy-lipped! 

Faith, I've studied long, now, 
Wimmen and their ways — 

And judgin' where it's took me 
Thim were stoodjous days! 

91 



Irish Poems 



Little rote IVe learnt me, 
Little have I read — 

But I know a thing or two 
Not in Michael's head! 



92 



Arthur Stringer 



THE END 

WAN touch av lip to lip it seemed 
Would ease and end desire; 
Wan mad kiss at the most, I dreamed, 
Would quench the ache and fire. 

When wishtful-eyed she gave wan kiss, 

The touch I'd hungered for, 
The thrue end, faith, I saw was this : 

Not wan, but fifty more ! 

And heart to heart she gave thim free, 

Soft kisses, day by day; 
But still some end that throubled me 

Stood off a world away ! 

And while we yearned and ere we learned 
We groped to wan gift more; 

And havin' that, the end was earned, 
And Sorrow shut the door ! 

93 



Irish Poems 



THE OLD MEN 

npHROUGH the noise av the crowded 
^ sthreet 

The thrappin's av sable crept; 
Where the light av the sun lay sweet 

The black-clothed mourners stept. 

And him — who'd feared at the sight 

Av coffin and hearse and sthone, 
He'll shleep widout fear this night 

In the churchyard wid his own ! 

But och, at the sight av his hearse, 
For a breath, how we all lay cold 

In the gloom and the clutch and the curse 
Av Death and His drippin' mould ! 

For a minute our ould backs bowed 

Wid the weight av his graveyard clay: 

Then the feelin' passed off like a cloud 
And wc wakened and went our way* 

94 



Arthur Stringer 



Yet faix, now, Fm wonderin' if Death 
Deep under the loam and the lorn 

Is throubled, in turn, for a breath, 
When he^s toldt av a child bein' born, 



95 



Irish Poems 



THE MORNIN'S MORNIN' 

OAYS O^Curran to me wid a bttthersome eye, 
^ Watchin! the wather thafd flooded his sty, 
And blinkin' up into a girlin' moist sky: 

"Ochone and me heart is that heavy, me lad! 

Aroo, and Til niver be laughin' again; 
For the world holds nothin' but what's gone 
bad, 

And I'm losin' me pigs wid the rain ! 

And I've worried it out to the bitthermost end; 

I see it as plain as the nose on your face. 
Och, we go to our grave wid niver a friend — 

And I'm tired av this throublesome place !" 

Says O^Curran to me wid a shmile and a wink 

Afther Fd passt him me hit av a drink, 

And he^d studied the sky and shtarted to think: 

96 



Arthur Stringer 



**Sure, It's fine to be shtandin' and takin' your 
ease, 
And watchin 'the Hivens fair rainin' wid joy ! 
Faith, it's good to be livin' on mornin's like 
these — 
'Tis a laughin' ould world, me boy! 

For faith, if wan couldn't be ailin' a bit 
We'd niver be feelin' the other way, lad; 

We'd niver know joy and be achin' for it. 
And niver be jiggin' and glad!" 

And he looked out at me wid a chirrupy eye 
And I passt him the bottle in over the sty 
Where his drowned pigs pointed their feet to 
the sky! 



97 



Irish Poems 



THE OLD HOUND 

'^^/^HEN Shamus made shift wid a turf-hut 
He'd naught but a hound to his name; 
And whither he went thrailed the ould friend, 
Dog-faithful and iver the same ! 

And he'd gnaw thro' a rope in the night-time, 

He'd eat thro' a wall or a door, 
He'd shwim thro' a lough in the winther, 

To be wid his master wanst more ! 

And the two, faith, would share their last 
bannock; 

They'd share their last callop and bone; 
And deep in the starin' ould sad eyes 

Lean Shamus would stare wid his own! 

And loose hung the flanks av the ould hound 
When Shamus lay sick on his bed — 

Ay, waitin' and watching wid sad eyes 
Where he'd eat not av bone or av bread I 

98 



Arthur Stringer 



But Shamus be Spring-time grew betther, 
And a throuble came into his mind ; 

And he'd take himself off to the village 
And be leavin' his hound behind I 

And deep was the whine av the ould dog 
Wid a love that was deeper than life — 

But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whispered 
That Shamus was takin' a wife! 

A wife and a fine house he got him; 

In a shay he went drivin' around; 
And I met him be chance at the Cross Roads 

And I says to him : ^'How's the ould hound?" 

"Me wife niver took to that ould dog,'* 

Says he wid a shrug av his slats, 
^*So we^ve got us a new dog from Galway, 

And och, he^s the divil for ratsP^ 



99 



Irish Poems 



SAYS OLD DOCTOR MA'GINN 

T F the Diviltry mixed wid Man 
Is leavin' us far from good, 
Faith, let us be honest at least, me lad, 
As Divil or Saint we should ! 

And though few av us walk the path 
That the Holier Men have trod, 

To be fair wid the Sinner as well as the Saint 
Is keepin' in touch wid God I 



100 



Arthur Stringer 



THE FO'CASTLE SAGE 

VT^E'LL watch for the palms thro' the dusk, 
-*• And ye'U come to a hill-side av light, 
And ye'll sniff at a stray scent av musk 
And be stealin' off land'ard at night! 

Ye'll be crowdin' past hathen and hoor 
And convarsin' wid wimmen, me lad; 

And the quicker they seem to allure, 
The slower ye'll reason they're bad! 

But beware av the bantherin' lip. 
And beware av the moitherin' eye; 

And beware av the olive-brown slip 
That sings as a lad goes by! 

And take heed, for the sake av your soul, 

Av the song the city may sing; 
And beware av the midnight bowl, 

And the touch av the trailin' wing I 

lOI 



Irish Poems 



Stand off from the hive av the Bad; 

Keep back from the drip av the comb ; 
And take thought av your luck, me lad, 

Wid the whole clean Sea for a home ! 

For, on land 'tis all throubles begin; 

And your home 'tis on wather and brine, 
And not in their harbours av Sin, 

Wid their music and laughin' and wine I 

So take heed by what happened to me, 
And if ye're for keepin' from harm. 

Stick close to your ship and the Sea, 

Where there's nothin' but wather and storm I 



I02 



^Arthur Stringer 



THE WEARING OF THE GREEN 

'IXT'E'RE wearin' av the green, boys, 
^^ Beneath their English rose; 
We're wearin' av the deeper green 
That Home and Ireland knows ! 

The green av holm and bogland, 
The green av lough and lake, 

The green that takes us back again 
And brings the olden ache ! 

The green av Aran wathers. 
The green av Rathlin waves, 

The green av all the hills av Home, 
And the green av Ireland's graves I 



103 



Irish Poems 



MOISTY WEATHER 

^TpHESE, in faith, are Irish days, 

■^ Days av rain and days av haze ; 
Misty, moisty, spit and drool; 
Iv'ry street-turn wid its pool; 
Iv'ry hedge and thatch a-drip; 
Wather, sure, to float a ship ! 

Not a boreen, not a brick, 

Not a road, and not a rick, 

Not a throat, and not a sty, 

Ye'll find, this day, in Ireland dry! 

— And all the hay-crop 's goin' bad. 

But what can laugh like wather, lad? 



104 



Arthur Stringer 



WINGS 

I 

T TAMED me wanst a wee bird 
^ Taken from the rain; 
I warmed it by me turf-fire 
And it grew strong again. 
''And Hiven help/' says I, ''the cat 
That harms a wee soft thing like that!" 

No hurt nor harm came to it 

Close behind me wall, 
But wan fine day in April 

I heard a wood-thrush call; 
And as I watched me startled bird, 
Faith, off it went widout a word! 

II 

I reared me wanst a wee gerri 

As gentle as the May; 
I kept her from the cold world, 

I watched her in her play: 

105 



Irish Poems 



**Gawd help the shtreel who'd iver try 
To take that gerrl from me!" says I. 

And yestereve I watched her 

Go creepin' through the gate, 
And, hidin' like a white hare, 

Beyont the lough-head wait: 
And when I spoke, ^Tm of/' says sh€, 
^^To wed the lad who's 'waitin' me 
And matin' me . . . across the Seal'' 



io6 



Arthur Stringer 



THE WIFE 

/^H, Muther, Muther, sure ye'll mind the 

^^ madness av it all ! 

Ye'll mind I had no shmile for him, no eye for 

him at all ! 
Och, Muther, I was mad wid love for laughin' 

Kindree Tim ; 
Vd given up me sobbin' lips and all me heart 
to him ! 

And Shamus was a dour man ; 
And och, he seemed a sour man; 
**And yon," says I, when first I sent him on his 

way again, 
Wid all his sad and patient eyes so clouded up 
wid pain, 

"Faith, yon's a cold man, 
And yon's an old man. 
And I'm for warrm and laughin* ways, and 
Fm forlovin'Tim!" 

The way wid life and lovin' sure ye'll niver 

learn at school; 
It seldom goes be raison, and it niver goes be 

rule! 

107 



Irish Poems 



'Twas half wid pity, Muther, half wid pique 

at struttin' Tim, 
I let dour Shamus speak the word that bound 

me up wid him. 
Widout a thrill av rapture and widout a throb 

av hope, 
I took him for me wedded mate — him, solemn 

as a Pope, 
Ay, him widout a chune or laugh, and wid his 

solemn way; 
He took me from ye, Muther, and off across 

The Bay, — 

And och the bitther tears 
And the thought av empty years 
And sobbin' that I'd rather die than face an- 
other day! 

I've borne him childer', Muther, and I've been 

an honest wife; 
We've had our thrials together, faith, our ups 

and downs wid life ; 
I've minded what ye tolt me, Muther, kept me 

throubles still. 
And bent me way to Shamus's and made his 

wish me will — 
But here's the wonder av it! Muther, Muther, 

tell me why 

io8 



Arthur Stringer 



The mid-day love grows stronger when the 
mornin' love must die, 

The solemn love grows dearer when the mad- 
der love goes by? 

For here I'm waitin' like a gerrl to hear me 
Shamus call, 

Ay, here Fm waitin' for the man who's now 
me all in all, 

And when I see him throubled sure it cuts me 
like a knife — 

And faith it's not a sad world, 
And sure it's not a mad world, 

For I love him, Muther, Muther, och, I love 
him more than life ! 



109 



Irish Poems 



BARNEY CREEGAN 

TTERE'S to you, Barney Creegan, 
-■- -^ Where iver ye may be ; 
And Hivin knows yeVe thravelled 
Be many a land and sea ! 

We've et and drunk together, 

We've known our ups and downs, 

We've seen our heap av throubles, 
And we've worn our fadin' crowns! 

Ye'd steal a kiss, or ham-bone, 

Ye'd rob a grave wid joy; 
And a shirr'd egg stand's, the only thing 

Ye'd niver poach, me boy ! 

Ye're twinty times a blagyard; 

Your worldly goods ye've spent — •- 
But rip and thief and ne'er-do-well. 

Ye knew what Friendship meant ! 

And if ye stick to me, still, 

As I have stuck to you, 
Faith, Barney Creegan, friends we'll be 

Until the shamrock's blue! 

no 



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BINDERY INC. 

^^ DEC 88 

TO=i!P N. MANCHESTER, 
^^a^ INDIANA 46962 









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